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Tuesday, October 9, 2012

The Bedroom with No Walls

We finally finished setting up
the eight-year old’s bedroom a couple of weeks ago. I swear, that girl has an overabundance of ….stuff. Too much stuff, to be honest, but don’t most
kids? I know the boys did. There might not have been many of the expensive
gadgets, but there were toys and toys and toys and…Well, you get the idea. Dylan is just as spoiled, um, I mean,
blessed, just as blessed. We even had to
leave the bottom bunk off of her bed to make room for some of it. Still, it is her room and she had fun helping
decorate it. So did the girls, by the
way.

Zac has his room all decked out,
as well. Of course, his idea of interior
decorating is empty liquor bottles, posters of half-naked women, and
confiscated road signs. I sometimes
wonder if he thinks a giant yellow YIELD sign will up his chances with the
ladies in some subliminal way. If it
works I am getting him a giant red STOP sign.

The boys didn’t always have their
own room growing up. When they were
younger, all three of them shared one room for awhile. Three beds.
A couple of dressers. And
toys. Plenty of toys. As soon as possible and before any sibling
blood could be shed, we started giving them each their own room. At first, it was just the eldest, but as soon
as we achieved bigger homes with more rooms, they each were put within their
own four walls. Of course, the first
thing they pointed out was that they now had more room for more toys. I bought them books, instead.

A bedroom is a sanctuary, and it’s
hard to have a quiet sanctuary if your sibling keeps leaving their dirty
clothes on the floor or stealing your stuff.
Luckily, I had a sister and not a brother and sharing a room past the
age of five was an awkwardness our parents didn’t want to bestow upon us. Of course, sometimes in order to have a
bedroom to yourself you have to make some sacrifices usually pertaining to size
or location. For adults this simply
means staying single in order to have your own room. When our middle son discovered he was going
to have to share a room with his brothers again, he chose to make camp out in
the garage. It wasn’t the coolest of
choices, especially in the summer heat of Florida, but it was private and that’s
what mattered.

The 70s were just getting started
when I was given my own room and, to be honest, this could be where my love of
back porches comes from. You see, my
first bedroom that I no longer had to share was in fact a back porch. Our house at the time only had six rooms and
a porch. It was a great house with
personality, set back on the river with an attic I only remember entering
once. It was an ugly Army green with a
small front porch that ran the width of the house and a massive two car garage
down in the back yard. It had wooden
floors, a claw foot bathtub, and a metal fireplace in the dining room to heat
the house. To my kindergarten mind, it
was huge.

When we first moved in I had to
share a room with my sister for awhile. We
had bunk beds, two dressers, and a huge, round wooden table that sat next to
the bed. It was like an extra kitchen
table that my parents had no place for and so it wound up in our room. I remember putting Elmer’s Glue on the table,
allowing it to dry and then peeling it off.
I also remember rolling out of the top bunk and smashing into that table
on the way to the floor. Of course, this
could account for a twisted mind later in life, but back then it only made me
want out of that top bunk and into my own room.

I’m not sure how the whole thing
came about, but my room was being moved to the back porch. My parents probably thought it easier than
always taking their son to the emergency room for falling out of bed. The back porch was L-shaped with the bottom
half of the walls a solid wood and the top half screen. There was no door to the outside, only
between the dining room and the porch and it faced a thick row of pine trees on
the opposite side of our driveway. To my
little mind it was just like camping only with a bed, my pool table and an
electric fan. Oh, and my toys, of
course.

Now, I can hear several moms
screaming, “Your bedroom was the back porch?
What was wrong with your parents?”
Of course, the fathers are wondering if they can get away with that now
and use their kid’s bedroom as their own game room and sanctuary. However, our city back then was not the city
it is today. The streets were safer and
most of the monsters remained on the other side of the track or safely tucked
away in the closet, which my room on the porch did not have. It was like allowing your children to camp
out in the back yard only it was an every night occurrence. I loved it!

My bed was right against the
window to my parents’ bedroom, so if anything went wrong or I became scared, I
could just “Break Glass In Case of Emergency.”
There wasn’t going to be an emergency.
This was my room! My own
room. My sister had to knock before she
came in. She couldn’t just take my toys
because they were in “our” room. I could
play with all of my stuff in peace and quiet; well, quiet until the cats fought
or a train went by. This was my haven
and I cherished it.

Growing up children need that special
place, I believe; a quiet sanctuary where they are surrounded by their things. It’s their security, their safe place where
their imagination can run wild without fear of being judged. That hairbrush can be gripped in a tight hand
and turned into a microphone as their mind takes over a sold out show. Tennis rackets become guitars and buckets
used to haul sand at the beach morph into drums. Within their walls their imaginations
transform everything within sight.

I think that’s why I love that
very first bedroom. The walls were see-through
and my mind did not stop at bedroom walls.
I floated on the river, fought bandits in those pine trees, and met
ghosts in the attic above. My
imagination had no walls and my dreams touched the sky. They still do.

2 comments:

Enjoyed this post, Robbie! Actually I tried to comment from my phone the other day but apparently our virtual worlds did not play nice : ). RIght after I read this post, I was visiting a friend who was allowing her youngest daughter to take up residence in the family den. She too enjoys a room with no walls as it is a wide open space. I think if given the opportunity she would also enjoy living on the porch, and really, what kid wouldn't?? What a fun experience that must have been for you and I suspect, may have fueled your wonderful creativity!! I grew up in a house where it was Dad's rule that all doors remained open, so strange now that I think of it. Funny thing is to this day, even though I live alone, I sleep with my bedroom door shut and locked!!! Have a great day and thanks for another fun read.

Thank you, Stephanie! It was fun listening to all of the night noises as crickets and toads sang me to sleep and birds sang me awake. AS I said, it was almost like being on a permanent camp out! I will fall asleep outside in the hammock still today if left to my devices. Thanks for visiting and commenting!

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About Robbie

The Mess That Is Me is merely my unique observations that sometimes find themselves hiding in the dark corners of a twisted mind. It is a sampling of what clutters my desk and fills the manila envelopes that find their way to editors In-boxes. If you enjoy what you read, please share the URL.

I live in sunny Florida where I spend my days taxiing the family to various places while jotting down the many crazy thoughts inside my head. I enjoy a freelance career writing for several magazines sharing some of my interesting viewpoints on life and those around me. I can usually be found on my back porch watching the squirrels chittering at the birds while enjoying a cigar, a scotch, and the many characters that talk to me inside my head.

My manuscripts have appeared in religious, parenting and retirement magazines, along with a ghost story or two. I am the author of the short story, Circle of Justice and the novella, Reaping the Harvest, both of which can be found at Smashwords.com, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon. Feel free to visit, strike up a chat and share a story or two with me.